


of grief, and of getting past it;

by bluebatwings



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mid-season 3, broken spiraling rick is the one who needs to be saved, daryl dixon is a Good Guy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 15:37:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10193159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebatwings/pseuds/bluebatwings
Summary: "Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us,/even in the leafless winter,/even in the ashy city./I am thinking now/of grief, and of getting past it;" -Mary Oliver





	

Life is made up of _moments_ , these days. There’s planning for the next moment, but no looking to the future; there’s learning from the mistake of the last moment, but no looking back. There is especially no looking back. There is: _I’m hungry-- has my daughter had enough to eat today? I’m cold-- my son needs a fire to sleep by. I’m tired-- my family needs rest._ Rick has always been a family man, the type to put their needs before his own. There’s just more family these days, and more insistent needs.

It loses him sleep, and weight, and bits and pieces of his mind, but not enough to make him stop. In fact, it takes a firm punch to the jaw from Daryl to get him to stop at all, if only because it causes him to black out for a few minutes. (It also causes Daryl’s hand to _ache_ like a sonofabitch, not that that’s ever stopped him from using his fists before.)

When Rick comes to, he’s in his bunk, or, at least the one he was given when they’d arrived at the prison. He doesn’t sleep nearly enough to call the room his, and when he does sleep, it’s usually curled up in the lookout tower or next to Judith’s crib. The bed is unfamiliar, but the shape of the body over his is even moreso. 

(For a second, just a _moment_ , he thinks that it’s Shane, and his heart stutters. He thinks that maybe it’s before, and he thinks, _but it was never like this-- we never--_ and he remembers dreaming about it, but Shane is dead and--)

Daryl’s legs are thrown over the edge of the cot and, consequently, thrown over Rick’s own legs. Rick looks up from the pillow at Daryl, his back against the concrete wall, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Daryl carefully leans forward, perpendicular to Rick, to flick ash to the floor. The solid weight of legs and dangling boots confuses Rick: he can’t tell if his breath is stopped up or if he’s breathing better than he has in days, weeks. Fucking months. Daryl leans his head back against the wall and, with his eyes closed, says,

“Took you out with one hit. What good’re you to us if you can’t even stay on your feet?”

It’s a kindness, even though it warms Rick’s cheeks with shame. No one was around when Daryl did it, and nothing could’ve gotten the point through Rick’s skull more clearly. Sometimes Rick wonders why Daryl doesn’t just put Rick out on his ass; he’s a better leader, has become a calmer presence than Rick, he can handle people. Hell, he’s been a better fucking father to Rick’s own daughter since the day she was born. 

But then, Rick knows why. Daryl isn’t his brother. Nothing like him, and never has been. Merle would have taken advantage. Daryl takes shotgun. Merle hadn’t been worth playing second fiddle to; Rick hopes to God he’s not just another Merle in Daryl’s life. 

“‘M a big boy,” Daryl says on a breath of smoke. “And so’re you.”

Their eyes meet, and Rick hadn’t realized he’d been staring. Wonders if he’d been talking, too.

“Get your shit together, Rick,” Daryl says, not unkindly, before laying a big hand on Rick’s thigh and then sliding his weight down and off of Rick. Rick is sorry for the loss. Of the weight and the moment.  
xxxxxxxxxxx

Nothing changes, at first. Rick still doesn’t sleep worth a damn, and one day he fires his gun at nothing. Glenn gently takes it off his hands, and Rick hardly realizes enough to argue. His daughter cries, but he always hears it too late-- different sets of arms always reach her before his, but he hears, “Shh, Asskicker, shh,” the most often. He has never hated anybody so purely as he hates himself, but his mind is so stretched and pulled that he doesn’t even realize it. Not even a knock-out punch will do it this time.

Instead, it’s a moment of stunned disbelief. Strangely, all Rick can think is, _Really? You’re still surprised? Haven’t I fucked up enough, haven’t I lost enough of my fucking mind for you to stop being shocked?_ Rick sees: Carol’s hand over her mouth. His son’s far-away look in his hardened eyes. Tears shining in Maggie’s eyes, Rick doesn’t even know if he’s looked her in the face since the day she handed him his daughter, both covered in his dead wife’s blood. Hershel, disappointed father, and Rick wants to scream, _Well what did you expect? Who let this happen in the first place?_ He doesn’t even remember what he said this time.

A hand wraps around Rick’s upper arm, and he doesn’t have to look to know it’s Daryl. Daryl pulls him away, into the abandoned and cleared out hallway. Of the prison. Where they live. And they expect him to be _sane_?

“Goddammit,” Daryl says, with heart, fingers digging into Rick’s arm, but not enough to hurt. 

Rick’s face feels expressionless as he’s dragged through the hallway and still the only words he can think are, _Really? You’re still surprised, really?_ over and over again. Repeat, repeat. He only stops moving forward when he’s shoved against a stone wall, gently enough to keep his head from knocking but with enough force to break him out of his thoughts. Daryl is standing in front of him, close, _near_. He’s more near to Rick than anyone has been in a long time. Rick can see the individual tiny scars that fleck Daryl’s cheeks and neck. He wonders how he got them. 

The look on Daryl’s face isn’t angry, Rick sees, when he’s able to pull his focus out. He’s as solemn as ever, but he doesn’t share the expressions Rick had seen in the other room, ranging from anger to horror to sadness to disgust. Rick has seen Daryl smile, of course. He’s seen him laugh. He’s known him for over a year, he knows him now, he thinks. He thinks. He says,

“You now, not me. I’m not me anymore. You’re not you, but you’re better. It made you better, and it made me worse.”

He doesn’t know exactly what he’s saying, but he thinks he means _this world. This world_ made Daryl better and if something good was ever going to come out of this complete shitshow, it is _that_. Rick Grimes is proud to have ever known this man. Even if he only ever gets to know him through the eyes of the broken thing he’s become.

“Shut up,” Daryl says. Rick wonders if he was running his fucking mouth again. Doesn’t really care if he had been. He’s got nothing left to hide anymore. “The fuck do you mean, _you now_?”

Rick feels his face make a smile. It’s unfamiliar.

“You can take care of them. You already do, I-- I know. Not me, not anymore. I can’t. I shouldn’t be here anymore--”

“What, you think you’re gonna leave me here alone with these dumbasses?” Daryl says loudly, and finally, he looks angry, and Rick’s glad for it, he deserves to be looked at like that-- “You’re not fucking leaving, Rick--” and he hits him again, except. He doesn’t. Rick hits the wall again, but it doesn’t hurt, and it’s because Daryl has thrown himself against him and he’s kissing him like he needs him, like this is what they’ve both needed. Rick is still expecting a hit to come, but instead Daryl’s hands come up to cup his face, palms and fingers rough, but his touch so much softer. Rick’s eyes flutter closed, and it takes a moment, but he comes back to himself. He is more grounded than he has been since-- maybe since the world died, and maybe it has something to do with feeling Daryl’s tongue against his own, but he thinks more that it’s just _Daryl_ , himself, the man. His hands don’t leave Rick’s face when he pulls back some, and Rick opens his eyes.

“I ain’t better, and you ain’t worse.” Daryl’s voice is low, but he’s so very near that Rick can hear every word. “Shit happens, people change. Different, maybe, but you’re still you. You ain’t leaving. Your family’s here.” And then, as if to prove it, Daryl kisses him again, harder this time, but he pulls away more quickly than before.

The fog doesn’t instantly clear from Rick’s mind, the veil isn’t lifted from his eyes. He doesn’t stop seeing ghosts. But he sees Daryl in front of him, more solid and real than anything else here has been. Maybe he’s not worse, but he is wounded, and has been becoming more and more infected all the time. He thinks, _Carl and Judith and Daryl and Carol and Hershel and Maggie and Glenn_ and he feels Daryl’s rough hands on him and there’s quiet in his mind, and he thinks that maybe he’ll sleep tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/bluebatwings)!


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